Remake Me
by mrsdaisybuchanan
Summary: He doesn't mean for it to happen. He doesn't expect it, doesn't ask for it, and maybe he doesn't need it. But he can't leave it. Can't forget. A story of love and addiction. Destiel.
1. Chapter 1

He never wanted this.

No, no. He never wanted any of this. Not one bit. He had never bought into it, never saw the point, had never been able to imagine himself in the place he was now.

Not that it mattered.

The music pulsed loudly – _too loudly _– and his vision blurred. Suddenly, the song changed and it was all too much. His knees buckled. His heart raced.

He was no stranger to the side effects of a life lived hard and fast, but in that moment, it was all so foreign. He knew where he was, what he was doing, and what was happening to him – but he didn't know how. He hadn't asked for this.

It was Sam that did him in.

Poor, sweet little Sam with his wide-eyed innocence and brazen determination to keep the tattered remains of his family together.

If Sam had just let sleeping dogs lie, none of this would've happened.

He would still be home, waiting tables at the 5 & Dine, wasting away just west of Bumfuck Nowhere.

But Sam had dragged him out here. To the big city with the pretty lights and no last call. _You'll like it, _he had said. _You'll love it._

And he did. Jesus, did he love it.

But it was wrong. All wrong.

He had been doing better – so much better – and he had managed to convince himself that this would help. He had allowed himself to give in to the ridiculous fantasy that moving out here would fix everything. That he would magically repair his relationship with Sam, get sober and stay sober, and somehow bring his dad back from the dead.

But the music was just too damn loud, and it was too damn hot, and he could feel his soul slipping away from him. Slowly, but surely. He would be joining his dad soon.

He pushed his way outside, past the pulsing crowds and the coat-check stand where he had paid an arm and a leg to leave his only coat. Urgently, relentlessly, he choked down breath after breath of the frigid air.

With shaking hands, he pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket, spilling them all over the pavement. He dropped to his knees to try and gather them, and after several desperate and pathetic attempts, managed to get his fingers around one.

He leaned back on his ankles and brought the cigarette to his mouth. But his lighter was still tucked inside his jacket pocket, and for all the good that did, it might as well have been worlds away.

He was quite literally on death's door and all he wanted to do in the last few minutes of his uneventful and meaningless life was smoke the goddamn cigarette. But he was going to die with his last wish unfulfilled. The anger he felt, the shear pity, was overwhelming.

But there was a man approaching him, dark haired and strikingly familiar, collar of his trench coat turned up against the cold.

The man slowed before him and, just for a moment, considered him carefully. He reached into his pocket and tossed a box of matches into his lap. He kept walking. Didn't stop. Didn't look back.

And as Dean watched him disappear into the night, he would've sworn the man was an angel. Maybe it was drugs, maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was some tactless cry for salvation before his last few minutes expired, Dean could've sworn it was an angel.


	2. Chapter 2

When Dean woke, the sun was shining weakly through the slits in the blinds, castling long, still shadows across the room.

His lips were chapped to the point of pain, his throat dry and sore with dehydration, and his stomach churned unpleasantly, sending waves of nausea through his whole body. He sat up, head pounding, and looked around. The walls were pale and bare, save for a framed letter of acceptance from Stanford Law. The furnishings were minimal. Desk in the corner. Bookshelf beside the desk. The only thing on the bedside table was a picture of smiling blonde woman, practically glowing with beauty. The room was clinically clean and organized, with a distinct air of underuse. Sam's room.

Dean's pants were crumbled on the ground, shirt balled up by his head. He stood, legs aching, and pulled his clothes on before crossing to the bathroom. The door was already open, boots abandoned in the doorway. His socks were several paces ahead. The toilet seat was up, his cell phone on the ledge above the bowl, and the room was heavy with the stench of stale sweat and fresh vomit.

For a moment, he thought he might be sick but it passed quickly. He grabbed his phone, slipped on his socks and laced up his boots.

He returned to the bedroom, taking care to pull the door shut. The previous night was a tangled blur of images and sensations, but he remembered coming in, body burning to high hell, stripping down to his boxers and making some sacrifices to the porcelain god.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed with a text message from Sam. He typed in the first three numbers of his pass code and felt his strength waver. He wasn't ready to face Sam. Sit through the lecture. The scalding. He wasn't ready to man up and accept the consequences of his actions. Not without a cigarette, at least.

There was a gas station across the street from the apartment. If he was quick enough, he wouldn't even have to lock the door.

He rifled through Sam's closet, looking for a jacket that wouldn't swallow him whole. He finally settled on a Stanford crewneck sweater that he suspected was Jess's. But the sun was rapidly setting, it wasthe middle of January, and his jacket was still hanging, unclaimed, in the coat check of the club from last night. If he had to wear a girl's jacket, it was his own damn fault.

Shivering against the cold, he climbed down the outer stairwell and crossed the street. The gas station was empty, the clerk bored, and the cigarettes far more expensive than back in Lawrence. That was the only thing that he missed from back home. Cheap smokes.

It was only once he was on the porch of Sam's apartment that he remembered he had left his lighter in his jacket pocket.

And then, it came back to him.

On his knees, teetering on the verge of an overdose, trying not to cry over spilled cigarettes. Weaving in and out of reality, of perception. The man. _The angel. _Had he imagined the whole thing? He didn't know how much he had drank, and certainly had no idea how much molly he had taken, straight to the head. It was possible. It was entirely possible that he had pushed his brain to the point of mania, of hallucinating. But, he had given him the book of matches. He shot to his feet, turning his pockets out. Surely enough, the matches were there.

He collapsed back into his seat, turning the matches over in his hands. It was a small, plain book. The kind you used to get in restaurants and clubs. But that was years ago. Back when smoking in public buildings was still legal. Dean had no idea why the man had had it, where he had gotten it, or how long he had been holding on to it for.

But it meant that he hadn't imagined a single thing.

He lit his cigarette, still gripping the matchbook tightly. Why was it so important? Why did it matter? Dean wasn't bothered by the idea that he had simply railed one too many lines and caused a few wires in his brain to short circuit. He almost would have preferred that. To know that none of it was real. But, there were no short circuits. And somewhere out there, there was a man in a trench coat that Dean could've sworn was angel. Dean, who had no interest in religion or God or angels or any of that bullshit. And he had his matches.

Hard as he tried, Dean couldn't think of anything else. Of anyone else. He couldn't be disappointed with himself for throwing away three endless, grueling months of sobriety in one fell swoop. He couldn't be angry for giving in to all the temptations that he had fought so hard against. And, probably worst of all, he couldn't even bring himself to think about what had happened the last time he had gone down the rabbit hole like this. He was too goddamn curious about the man with the matches to feel the horror he should have felt. No, he was too busy trying to find some remnant of this supposed angel to think about how the last time he had opened a bottle of whiskey, the last time he had snorted molly, his best friend ended up dead and it was all his fault.

He knew he should've felt terrible, but he couldn't bring himself to even think about it. He was just too damn fascinated by the man with the matches.

His cigarette was smoked down to the filter. He cast it off the side of the balcony, still burning, and lit another one.

His phone buzzed with another message from Sam. Right. He had forgotten. That was why he had come out here in the first place, wasn't it? To smoke a few cigarettes, steel his nerves, and see what Sam had to say.

There were 6 text messages, 4 missed calls and 3 voicemails. He played the most recent voicemail.

"Dude, seriously? It's almost 7 and you're still asleep. I can't believe you, Dean. I really can't. You come out here 'cause you wanna quit drinking but you can't do it alone, and you need me to help you. That's what _you _said. And as soon as you start making some fucking progress, you go and fuck it all up. Look, man. We gotta talk. Figure something out. I'll be back soon. You better still be here."

He glanced at the time of the voicemail. It had been just over an hour. He figured Sam would probably be home soon. And boy, was he in for it.

As soon as he finished his cigarette, he lit another one.

He shouldn't have listened to the message.

He already knew what the rest of the messages said. _I'm so disappointed in you, Dean. _All of them, different variations of Sam's immense disappointment. He didn't need to listen to the voicemails or read the texts to know. It's because he _was _a fucking disappointment. He should've just deleted them, waited it out, and continued to wonder about the man with the matches. Because the man with the matches wasn't about to show up and rip him a new one for shit he already knew he shouldn't have done. The man with the matches didn't know shit about him. Didn't know about the drinking. How out of control it had gotten. He didn't know what had happened and he didn't know that it was all Dean's fault. And he certainly didn't know about Dean's tangle with molly, with ecstasy. With just MDMA. He didn't know about all the money he had blown, and he had no idea just how cold the ground was when you hit rock bottom.

Not like Sam.

Sam knew it all. Because he had been there for it. Had tried to help Dean. Steer him away. Instead he had just watched him crash and burn.

Maybe, Dean figured, this was why he couldn't stop thinking about the man with the matches. To him, Dean could've just looked like a guy who had dropped his pack of cigarettes on the ground and was trying to pick them up. He had no idea – no possible way of knowing – what was really going on.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Dean? You can't smoke out here."

"Would you rather I do it inside the apartment?"

"Just don't do it at all, man."

Sam was behind him, standing in the doorway, and Dean wasn't sure he could do this. Wasn't sure he could turn around and face Sam and have this talk. He wasn't sure that he could admit he was in over his head and fucking own up to the fact that he had a goddamn problem. So, he didn't.

He dropped the cigarette on the ground, stubbed it out with the toe of his boot, and stood up to leave.

"Well, thanks for picking me up last night, Sammy. I gotta go."

He pushed past Sam and into the living room, but Sam wouldn't let him leave.

"C'mon man, we gotta talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"The fuck there is! You can't pretend like this didn't happen. I saw you last night, Dean. You were drunk and your pupils were so fucking dilated. How much did you take? How much did you drink?"

"I don't have time for this now, Sammy. I told you. I have to go."

And somehow, Sam backed down. Looking slightly hurt and completely defeated, he opened the door for Dean. Just so he could slam it as soon as he crossed over the threshold.


	3. Chapter 3

Alright, y'all. Chapter 3. I probably should've started author's notes from the beginning, but too late now. Well, this is my first Supernatural fic, so go easy on me. Enjoy, and make sure to review!

xx

He couldn't tell when it had become a problem. Wasn't able to pinpoint the day or event or loss that had pushed him over the edge. He had always been a heavy drinker. He figured it was a result of his lifestyle. The things he saw, the things he did, they got to a person. Wore them down. Threatened to break their spirit. Break _them. _A lot of people wouldn't have been able to handle the life. The long days on the road, floating from town to town, chasing whispers. The solidarity. The constant and unrelenting change. No one ever stayed the same. His dad changed. Sam changed. Everything fucked changed, especially when he needed it to stay the same. Maybe that's why he had started drinking. Because it was the only constant he was able to find. Stick to the same bottle, it'll always treat you the same way. He could count on alcohol when he wasn't able to count on anything else.

He had started drinking young. Probably, in retrospect, too young. He was lurking in the shadows across the street from package stores, waiting for someone to come along who he could talk into buying him something off the bottom shelf, before he could even drive.

It was how he coped. Especially after Sam left. He had spent his whole life with Sam. Almost every single day, they had been together. Sam left him and he didn't know what to do. He loved his dad – he really did. More than he loved himself, probably. But Sam understood. He just got it. They had been kids when it all started, and when they should've been terrified of the monster under their bed, they were hunting the monster in their closet. No one else understood what that was like. There were others, his age, but they didn't understand. Not like Sam did. He had thought they were in it together.

And that was probably when it had started to get out of hand. After losing Sam. After that, they had settled down. His dad said he wanted to give Dean some semblance of normalcy, of a regular, run of the mill life. He rented a house for them, adopted a dog, started buying groceries. He got a fucking library card.

He told Dean he thought getting out of the life would help him, but really, Dean thought he was doing it all to spite Sam.

And then, not too long after that, he left Dean too.

He was supposed to be gone for a week or two, at the most. Icing some bottom-tier demon near the state line. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. But he never came back.

It didn't take long after that for Dean to fall down the rabbit hole.

He didn't remember a lot of it. Couldn't tell you how he managed to pay the bills, or kept himself from starving to death. The only thing he remembered with exact clarity was that night. The first night. He remembered every detail perfectly, from how long it took the ambulance to reach them, to how many people were sitting in the waiting room. Even now, months later, he could recall the exact order of the words on the intake form, on the witness report.

After the last night came the first morning, when Sam showed up on his doorstep to drag him, kicking and screaming, to the Ridgecrest Institute for Psychiatric and Addiction Treatment. For a long time, he hated Sam for it. His life, vices in particular, were none of Sam's goddamn business. He was sticking his nose where it didn't belong, and for so long – _too long _– Dean was angry. Angry, and nothing more. He had quit drinking so he could shove his sobriety in Sam's face. Since he had been released, his hatred for Sam had given him the strength to keep away from the bottle. But months had passed, his anger had dissipated, and he felt his resolve wavering.

Or, rather, his resolve had already crumbled under the pressure, and the cracks in his foundation were growing, breaking him apart.

Last night, he had given in to that overwhelming desire to do bad, to do wrong. After everything – all the endless nights, tossing and turning in the standard issue hospital bed; after all the startlingly clear mornings, reveling in his sobriety with a sick pride – he had relapsed.

So far. He had come so far. Made so much goddamn progress. And it was all gone. He had ruined it all. And for what? One insignificant, worthless night in some club downtown.

It hadn't even been a proper relapse, either.

One beer turned into a double whiskey, neat, and that was fine and proper. But the double whiskey, neat, turned into another, and then another, and before he knew it, he was railing lines of molly in the bathroom. And, all of a sudden, he was royally fucked. Rolling face. The alcohol completely forgotten. He couldn't even screw up right anymore.

Suddenly, his stomach growled.

When had he eaten last? It must have been yesterday, before he went to the club. Lunch. If a handful of stale chips and a few cups of weak coffee counted as a meal. He need food, and not just the meager assortment of condiments rotting in his fridge, or the imperishable canned mystery meat that had been on sale 10 for $10 at the corner grocer.

He lived in the basement apartment below a take-out only Chinese joint, and if the owner's young daughter was working, he could charm his way into a hefty discount or a free combo upgrade.

Shrugging out of Jess's sweater, he pulled on a jacket of his own. It was more ragged, older and nowhere near as warm. He was too angry with himself, and her sweater just reminded him of his mistakes.

Outside, the night was bitter and cold, the only light coming from the flickering streetlights and the dim shop windows. The Chinese place was empty, and luckily, the daughter sat behind the counter, absentmindedly flipping through a magazine. When she looked up and saw him, a smile broke like dawn across her face. Briefly, he was struck with a wave of guilt: She was nursing a pretty big crush on him and he was taking advantage of the situation. She was cute enough, sure, but she'd be a hell of a lot cuter if he knew for sure she was 18. And anyway, he had a feeling her old man would come after him with a shotgun if he ever caught wind.

But his stomach growled again, and he really didn't feel _that _bad.

He ordered, putting on his most flirtatious grin, and took care to make sure he gave her the wrong idea.

The total came out to $6.77. There were only a handful of things on the menu that were that cheap and he hadn't ordered any of them.

Yeah. He definitely didn't feel that bad.

He paid and went outside to smoke while he waited on the food. Once again, with the matchbox in hand, his thoughts turned to the man with the matches. The haze of the previous night had finally lifted and he was able to recall the man with an unnerving certainty. He knew him. He was sure. He just didn't know how, or where from. Couldn't place him. But he couldn't shake the feeling it was the trench coat. Somewhere along the line, he had known the man. Met him, spoken to him, known him. In some capacity, at least. He could picture him, across a desk, in some office. In some conference room. Wearing the trench coat. Telling him to sign on the dotted line.

But Dean had a lot of those memories. The Sioux Falls police station, his state-appointed lawyer's office, his case worker, high school principle; truancy officer. And then, there was the hospital. All the different rooms and meetings. The men in ill-fitting suits, women in shabby dresses and too-casual skirts.

Was it the hospital? He wanted to say yes, to know for sure. Because maybe if he could figure it out, he would be able to stop thinking about the man. Not even a day had passed, and already, the mystery of the man threatened to overwhelm his every thought. He hated puzzles, hated fill-in-the-blanks, hated gaps in his memory he couldn't fix. He was already halfway to crazy, he reckoned, and this would be the straw that broke the camel's back. He would drive himself insane trying to figure out who this guy was.

"Dean?"

The girl leaned out of the door of the restaurant, brown paper bag cradled in her arms. "Your food is ready."

"Thanks, babe," he practically crooned, taking the bag from her. He was laying it on thick, he knew, but money was tight and he had to eat, one way or another.

Gratefully, he thanked her and climbed down the stairs to his apartment. He had to spread the food out across the floor. Furniture was expensive, and he found that getting his rent in on time was more important than having a dining room table.

The food was hot, surprisingly good, and he forced himself to put it up after one serving. He needed to make it last.

Still hungry, deeply unsatisfied, and unwaveringly discontent, he laid down in his bed, shivering under the thin blanket. For several long minutes, he stared at the ceiling, looking for patterns in the water stains as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He wasn't dark.

Suddenly, he shot out of bed, possessed with sudden inspiration. When Sam had started law school, he had received a considerable stipend from the school. His first purchase had been a brand new laptop, and his old desktop sat in the corner of Dean's room.

He pulled the blanket around him and scrambled to the computer. He lit a cigarette while he waited for it to power up, casting his ash into an empty soda can. He didn't bother to open a window. He didn't care enough.

After about a dozen tries, a string of curses that would've made a sailor blush, and starting on his second cigarette, he was connected to his neighbor's wifi.

He pulled up the internet and searched for Ridgecrest Institute for Psychiatric and Addiction Treatment. The first result took him to the institute's homepage, complete with pictures of the facility. He took a long drag off of his cigarette and exhaled sharply. He hadn't expected a simple picture of the front of the building to hit him so hard.

Quickly, he scanned the tabs at the top of the page, settling on _ABOUT US. _The connection was slow and lagging behind, but sure enough, on the left side of the page was a link for _FACULTY. _That page took even longer to load.

But when it did, he felt as though he had won the lottery.

Next to every short biography of every faculty member, was a picture of them.

Dean scrolled down quickly, searching for the man. And, third from the bottom, there he was. Staring at him with eyes so blue they were almost unnatural. Five o'clock shadow set against a subtle grimace. Brows knitted. Collar of the trench coat barely visible at the bottom of the frame.

His name, the section read, was Castiel Novak, and he was the institute's resident accountant and funds coordinator.

_Castiel was born and raised in Pontiac, Illinois. He started at the University of Chicago at the age of 17; where he went on to earn a Master's of Science in accounting. He joined the Ridgecrest Institute for Psychiatric and Addiction Treatment family shortly after graduating from the program. He enjoys botany, literature, and travel._

His company email, work phone, and fax number were listed underneath his picture.

Dean returned to his bed, leaving the page up on the screen. He was pretty damn pleased with himself. Not only had he solved the mystery, he had been right about it. Castiel Novak, the man with the matches, was the fucking accountant for the hospital. He had met with him a couple of times to discuss payment options and funding. And every time, that trench coat had been hanging on a peg behind his desk. That was how he knew. And damn, did it feel good.

He settled further into his bed sheets, reveling in his small victory.

It was over. Mystery solved. Case closed. He could finally expel Castiel Novak from his thoughts.

Or, at least he thought he could.

Except, all night, a wispy figure weaved in and out his dreams, clad in a tan trench coat, piercing blue eyes refusing to meet his gaze.

xx

The namesake for this story is the song "Remake Me," by Dispatch. Terrific song from a great band - definitely worth a listen!


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